


Silver to Steel, Remastered version

by Kasan_Soulblade



Series: Of Shattered Glass/These Warped Perspectives [3]
Category: Tales of Symphonia
Genre: Botta's background fic, Game Spoilers, Gen, Pre-game fic, Renegade fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-20
Updated: 2013-12-20
Packaged: 2018-01-05 07:29:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1091226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kasan_Soulblade/pseuds/Kasan_Soulblade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When he was a kinder man, filled with gentleness, his eyes were the color of silver. Pure and bright.  But under the strain of time silver twisted to steel, both bright, one just a bit more biting.  His journey was of leaving one world for another, than another, until looking back he could see the order of manufactured chaos and learned that both were places were one and the same.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Silver to Steel, Remastered version

 

Silver to Steel:

Point of law

She was… beautiful… Her hair was gold, her eyes the color of sky. He sighed, her brilliance, perfection, burned into his eyes with only a mere glance. He let loose the smallest of branches he'd pushed aside to spare a glimpse of her while she walked to church today. Aching with the irony, the bitter irony in knowing that the glance he'd stolen was all he’d ever get he leaned against the knot in the tree.  The branches no longer being pushed apart by his shaking hands slid together. Once more nature served as a screen of her perfection from eyes.

Strange as it sounded to the outsider in Ozette one could lean against knots of the trees.  Whirls of the bark were spiraling roads, and the patches of leaves shaped to resemble bushes and other plant life, the tell was the monochrome, and sameness to the leaves shapes.  Still the topiary was so well done that none above envied the world below and their variety. The clusters of leaves, near trees themselves, some bound so tight the branches seemed trunks, were the only thing that blocked the view of the other branches or… what did outsiders call them? Wooden roads, a freeway? The terminology felt odd in his mind and he shook it off with a sigh.

 Ozette simply was. And that was all there was to it.

Outsider words, like the outsiders themselves, were foolishness; and of course, all in Ozette knew the foolishness of outsiders. Roads were made of earth, dusty patches of ground, smoothed by hoof and wheel of a wagon. Branches –no matter their size- were wood, they wound around, some went straight, and others dipped and wove… some were slick, others rough, all were alive. Some more then others, but the whole of Ozette was alive. The tree paths that were on the most outer edges of Ozette sported a multitude of tiny green shoots, giving the illusion of grass courtesy of some zealous trimming. Still, as he turned away from the patch, where he might have seen her again, if he were willing to waste a day and more lingering, he wondered for the hundredth time what grass really looked like.

He could climb down to see…

But if he left he'd never be allowed to come back. He knew that in his heart. The guards who knew him, who saw him every day of their –and his- life would "forget" who he was should he leave their regard but for a moment.  And once forgotten he'd never be allowed to come back.

Because outsiders were wrong, tainted, less holy, less living, and they’d want nothing to do with what wasn’t truly alive.

To a dream abandoned Botta sighed, ran a hand through his black spiky locks.  Frustration indulged in full he let his silver eyes slide shut, it wasn't fair, but then life never was.

 _Not for a half elf, not for anyone, I've just got a slightly harder hand to work with then everyone else_.

"Hey, big butt, get off that damned halfie ass and get back to work!"

Botta gritted his teeth, pushed down on the urge to punch the human heckler; he hated it when they called him that damned name.  Grey eyes cracking open as Botta stilled his descent to consider the human above him. The man wore a leather apron, squat with attendant paunch, the man’s beard was a scraggly mess despite being the more civilized of the two of them. Red hairs flecked with grey topped the man off.  A quick glance at the blobish square upon the man’s apron indicated the Shopkeeper as Mer Jarish, competitor to the man who had lawfully taken Botta’s services a moon ago.

"I don't work for you." Botta corrected, careful, oh so careful to not indulge in any of the anger he felt rattling amongst his bones. "I work for your competitor."

"I just got a load."  Botta closed his eyes, waiting for the proverbial lash to fall.  "So here’s the deal, I say you work for me, or I'll get the guards on you for loitering."

The unsaid hung in the air between them. A human's story would be taken over a half elf's any day, even if the human proposed that there were two suns and the second was invisible... If –by some miracle- Botta was believed, they'd fine him for causing a disturbance then quote some piece of Martelian writ at him… probably that line about idle hands being evil he heard it all the time anyways… So to purify his corrupted soul he'd then be forced to do the work anyway.

He'd come out of the affair with a few more bruises then normal. After all, he’d disturbed the guards, a cardinal sin that.  And since there were no angels about… well retribution sans divine would be doled out.  Such was how the world went.

Forcing servility sans smile he turned to face the man and bowed. He could not stand to see the man's smug pride, the satisfaction, the hate. He'd have met hate with hate if he dared.  But truth be told he didn’t dare anything.

For the first time in almost two years he’d had a steady income, was eating regularly without having to scavenge or hunt up what he dared with sling, ropes, and wits.  Doubly daring since poaching was illegal in Ozette.

He’d _just_ got that contract; being spotted with his “owners” competitor would jeopardize it,

He didn't dare protest, or shirk despite being sore and tired from his earlier five hour stint of heavy lifting.  Because rebellion meant the next step was force.  In the best scenario he’d be beat, and his wounds purified via some priests salt. The worst was that the guards would look at him, see his pointed ears, hear the word “problem”, and there’d be a pointed eared corpse

It was a law, newest courtesy of Tethe’alla’s king. All half elves convicted of any crime were to be executed. Those words had replaced the child's lullaby that should have been spoken over his crib, had darkened his silver eyes to a steel color when he thought of them. He’d seen enough, seen the gallows filled with those who had perhaps pickpocketed.  The deceased masses had pitted desperation against mercy and found mercy wanting.

In yet another way he was recalled his place.  He had no future save dull obedience, and he should resign himself to that fact. Be it gallows or death, such was his destiny, his duty was to abide to his destiny.  So spoke the Church of Martel. Chosen to common man, one must always follow duty, so said the writ, so had said his father, and all the wise before him.

But if it was his duty, if it was his place, why must he be resigned to it? Why not rejoice? Why couldn’t he take some pleasure in this life despite the toil? Where was hope that what he was doing was good, would lead to something beyond himself that had consoled the generations before him?

"Are you dumb?" The man growled. "You're a big one you can do plenty of lifting."

Never mind he’d just gotten off, from doing an obscene about of lifting a mere hour ago.  That this spying had been a prelude to him finding some sort of food and that he hadn’t broken his fast from yesterday.

" _Jakun isty carn_."

"What was that?"

Botta smirked, the dull anger in his chest faded as he said the words that his father had taught him. He'd learned that phrase right before his father had joined the Desian Ranch a few miles north of Ozette. It was the only Elvin that Botta knew, the only Elvin that his father had known. Like a good father his sire had taught him everything he'd known, then left him a note stating that he could go to the Ranch any time he wanted, he'd leave the door open for him to drop by any time.

Good steady food, a chance to use his power, weapons' training, and revenge had been the offer, and he'd be damned if there weren't days it wasn't tempting.

"Lead on Mer, it's… in my father's tongue. He was an elf." Botta lied.

" _Jakun isty carn? Carn's_ sir then?"

Botta nodded; bit his lip to keep from laughing. Though the words were faltering, the accent horrible, the meaning was unchanged.

As for what it meant, well Carn was the lightest of the swear words, and it meant "bastard".

"Carn… I like it." The human puffed out his chest. "From now on no Mer. crap, you call me Carn. _Mer Carn Jarash_ to you points."

Botta ignored the protest of his stomach, and dared a small smile that his mother had called shy.  Or perhaps sweet.  Only the glint of his eyes told the true tale, it was wicked, a small wickedness that would have set priests to scrambling and lectures about salvation to ringing.  Still, there’d been a meeting of the minds.  The shopkeeper and he were in perfect accord.

**Author's Note:**

> The original can be found here.
> 
> https://www.fanfiction.net/s/2902984/1/Silver-to-Steel


End file.
